Do stay a little longer, Oblomov said, trying to detain him. Besides, Id like to ask your advice two awful things have happened to me.
No, no, Im sorry, old man, Id better look you up again in a couple of days, Sudbinsky said, leaving the room.
My dear fellow, youre up to your neck in it, thought Oblomov, as he watched him go. Blind, deaf, and dumb to everything else in the world. But hell be a big man one day, be put in charge of all sorts of important things, and reach a high rank in the service. This is what they call making a career, I suppose! But how little of the real man is wanted for such a career intelligence, will, feelings are not wanted. What for? Theyre a luxury! And so hell go on till he dies, and hell go through life without being aware of lots of things. And there he goes on working from twelve till five at his office and from eight till twelve at home poor fellow!
He felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought that he could stay in bed from nine till three and from eight till nine, and was proud that he had no reports to make nor papers to write and that there was ample scope both for his feelings and his imagination.
Oblomov was absorbed in his thoughts and did not notice a very thin dark man standing by his bed, a man whose face was practically invisible behind his whiskers, moustache, and imperial. He was dressed with studied negligence.
Good morning, Oblomov!
Good morning, Penkin, said Oblomov. Dont come near, dont come near, youre straight from the cold!
Oh, you funny fellow, Penkin said. Still the same incorrigible, care-free idler!
Yes, care-free! said Oblomov. Let me show you the letter I received from my bailiff last night: I am racking my brains and you say: care-free! Where do you come from?
From a bookshop: I went to find out if the magazines were out. Have you read my article?
No.
Ill send it to you. Read it.
What is it about? asked Oblomov, yawning heartily.
About trade, the emancipation of women, the beautiful April weather weve been having, and about a newly invented fire extinguisher. How is it you dont read the papers? Why, you find all about our daily life there. But most of all Im agitating for the realistic movement in literature.
Have you plenty of work? asked Oblomov.
Oh, quite a lot. Two articles a week for my paper, reviewing novels, and Ive just written a short story.
What about?
About the mayor of a provincial town who boxes the ears of the local tradespeople.
Yes, thats realism all right, said Oblomov.
Isnt it? the literary gentleman said, looking pleased. This is the main idea of my story and, mind you, I know7 it is new and daring. A traveller happened to sec the beating and he went and complained to the Governor about it. The Governor ordered a civil servant, who was going to the town on official business, to look into the matter and, generally, find out all he could about the mayors conduct and personality. The official called a meeting of the local tradespeople on the pretext of discussing their trade with them, and began questioning them about that, too. Well, what do you think those shopkeepers did? Why, they bowed and scraped and praised the mayor up to the skies. The official made some private inquiries and found that the trades men were awful rogues, sold rotten goods, gave short measure, cheated the Government, were utterly immoral, so that the beating was a well-deserved punishment!»
«So the mayors blows play the part of Fate in the ancient tragedies?» said Oblomov.
«Yes, indeed», Penkin was quick to agree. «You have a fine appreciation of literature, Oblomov. You ought to be a writer. You see, Ive succeeded in showing up the mayors arbitrary disregard of the laws and the common peoples corrupt morals, the bad methods adopted by the subordinate officials, and the need for stern but legal measures. Dont you think this idea of mine is er rather new?»
«Yes, especially to me», said Oblomov. «I read so little, you see».
«As a matter of fact», said Penkin, «one doesnt see many books in your room, does one? But you must read one thing, a most excellent poem will be published shortly A Corrupt Officials Love for a Fallen Woman I cant tell you who the author is. It is still a secret».
«What is it about?»
«The whole mechanism of our social life is shown up, and all in a highly poetic vein. All the hidden wires are exposed, all the rungs of the social ladder are carefully examined. The author summons, as though for trial, the weak but vicious statesman and а whole swarm of corrupt officials who deceive him; and every type of fallen woman is closely scrutinized Frenchwomen, German, Finnish and everything, everything is so remarkably, so thrillingly true to life Ive heard extracts from it the author is a great man! He reminds one of Dante and Shakespeare»
«Good Lord!» cried Oblomov in surprise, sitting up. «Going a bit too far, arent you?»
Penkin suddenly fell silent, realizing that he had really gone too far.
«Read it and judge for yourself», he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.
«No, Penkin, I wont read it».
«Why not? Its creating a sensation, people are talking about it».
«Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know».
«But why not read it, just out of curiosity?»
«Oh, what is there to be curious about?» said Oblomov. «I dont know why they keep on writing just to amuse themselves, I suppose».
«To amuse themselves! Why, its all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman its as if the writers caught them alive!»
«But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity thats what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not invisible tears, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness».
«What more do you want? Thats excellent. Youve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings everythings there!»
«No, no, not everything», Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. «Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but dont forget that they, too, are human beings. Wheres your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!» Oblomov almost hissed. «Do you think that to express ideas one doesnt need a heart? One does need it they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember that he is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you», he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. «They describe a thief or a prostitute», he went on, «but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please dont pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry».
«According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature roses, nightingales, frosty mornings while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society we have no time for songs nowadays».